Those Little Things That Keep You Going
by JennaEf
Summary: Five moments in life with Sherlock John wishes to remeber, and the one he would gladly forget.
1. In Your Hands

**Okay, another 5+1 story, an idea of which came into existence thanks to prompts by wonderful Nychta. Thank you, darling, and I'm taking all six of them, by the way :)**

**Speaking of which... The first prompt is "Insomnia".  
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**And of course, a customary 'thank you' to my amazing beta, Pilikia18.**

As Detective Inspector Lestrade once said, Sherlock Holmes is a great man. But Doctor John Watson knows just one more little thing for certain: he has no need to wait for Sherlock to become a good one.

This life and this world shaped Sherlock to be the man he is – sometimes cruel, sometimes condescending, but nevertheless astonishingly brilliant and painfully fragile.

John sees it, hears it, and feels it in Sherlock's gestures and words, and even in the way he breathes.

John Watson isn't as ordinary as it may seem. Those who bother to look closer – Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, and more importantly, Sherlock himself – know that for certain. And while John is perfectly capable of being stern, stubborn, and strict, he's also the most caring, gentle, and sympathetic person in the world.

But there's one quality in John which only Sherlock is aware of, having experienced it firsthand. Neither of two men is inclined to discuss it so it's doubtful that it will be a conversation topic someday. There's a silent agreement, forged under the cover of the night and therefore kept secret from the rest of the world. But from time to time, when the pressure becomes too much to bear, forcing Sherlock's brain to go into overload and causing insomnia, the dark-haired genius sneaks into his flatmate's bedroom and lets John heal him with those amazing hands.

Sherlock remembers perfectly the first time it happened. The case was an interesting one. He always loved this type of case – seemingly simple, but hiding a whole stack of enticing surprises. But it was as difficult as it was interesting, so it required every ounce of Sherlock's vast experience and brainpower.

The world's only consulting detective worked himself into an absolute frenzy: he categorically refused to stop moving even for a second and hadn't paused to eat or sleep while he was wrestling with the case. Almost everything was clear, except for the last small detail; and no matter how hard he tried, the remaining piece of the puzzle kept slipping away.

That was the first time Sherlock ventured into John's bedroom, hoping for any kind of help, but not knowing at all how to ask for it.

John's sleep was very fitful, and the moment Sherlock stopped by his bedside and fixed those weird pale eyes on him, the ex-army medic rolled over and looked at his strange flatmate, blinking in confusion.

"Sherlock?" John rasped, his throat too dry from sleep to speak properly. "What are you doing here? Has something happened?"

Oh, how desperately Sherlock wished at this moment that John could read his mind! But unfortunately, telepathy wasn't one of John's talents, so Sherlock tried to answer as best as he could.

He cradled his head in his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his temples. "I can't stand it anymore, John. All those thoughts in my head... They are going round and round, and I can't make them stop. It's intolerable."

John slowly sat up in his bed, his worried eyes taking in his friend's ragged appearance. "You're always thinking, Sherlock; that's who you are. So what makes this situation so different?"

The younger man seemed oblivious to his questions, continuing his anguished litany. "I wish I was able to crush my skull, John. It only requires the right amount of pressure, and then it will stop... What's the point in having a brain if it can't give you one simple answer?"

A deafening uproar of alarm bells went off in John's head, and he was out of bed in an instant, switching the lights on and prying Sherlock's hands away from his head.

The tall man flinched, stumbled back, and glared at the sudden intrusion.

The blond doctor raised his hands in placating gesture, then sat down on his bed. "Sorry, Sherlock, didn't mean to startle you. Calm down and take a seat, please."

John's voice was soft and soothing; Sherlock briefly considered his options and, having decided, took a step towards his flatmate's bed and gracefully folded his lanky body into a sitting position.

His friend looked at him searchingly, then a slight smile curved his lips. "I think I can help you, Sherlock. If you trust me, that is."

"Don't be stupid, John," Sherlock murmured, turning slightly to look John straight in the eyes.

"Good," the smaller man made himself comfortable and rubbed his palms together for a few moments. "Face away and lean back. And don't worry, I've got you."

The dark-haired man closed his eyes and did as he was told. John shifted forward, letting his friend's body meld into his, and carefully placed his fingertips on Sherlock's temples. He waited a little, letting Sherlock get used to their proximity, then started massaging his flatmate's head gently, but thoroughly.

Sherlock tensed at first, unaccustomed to being touched in such a way, but the feather-light touches of John's hands on his skull soon brought a pleasant warmth and numbness. Relaxing further, the dark-haired man took a deep breath and suddenly realised that his thoughts were slowing down, slipping away. His head felt light and empty, and he welcomed the new feeling of absolute calm, concentrating on how John's touch felt: stroking through his hair, pressing lightly against his skin, rubbing small circles over his temples. He could swear he even felt his hair catching in microscopic grooves that formed unique patterns of John's fingerprints...

Oh!

Of course!

Sherlock sprang up from the bed with lightning speed, startling John, and whirled around to smile at him triumphantly.

"Fake fingerprints, John. I've been blind. Thank you," he blurted out, and was gone from the bedroom in a flash.

The ex-army doctor smiled knowingly and started to dress, waiting till the moment Sherlock reappeared in his room, coat and scarf already on.

"Time to go, John, we have a killer to catch," he announced impatiently and threw John his Haversack coat. "Hurry up!"

"Sure thing, Sherlock," John pulled the coat on and buttoned it swiftly. "But I want to tell you something before we leave."

The tall man raised his eyebrow questioningly.

"If it happens again, feel free to barge in immediately, Sherlock," John said quietly. "It will definitely save us a meaningful sum of money."

With that, the ex-army medic breezed past his flatmate, whose eyebrows made a brief leap towards hairline.

Intrigued, the detective caught up with his blogger on the stairs. "I beg your pardon?"

"The hydraulic press, Sherlock," John deadpanned. "Don't tell me you hadn't considered buying one."

The tall man stopped, grinned, and shook his head.

"Who needs one when peer pressure suffices?"


	2. Washed Away

**Okay, the second prompt from Nychta is 'Rain'. Hope you'll enjoy!**

**Beta: Pilikia18**

There are days when everything goes wrong straight from the beginning.

Before Sherlock, the number of such days in John's life was moderate; but after they met, those days started to make an appearance quite often.

John could unmistakably recognise a troublemaker when he saw one, and the moment he saw the tall, dark-haired man at Bart's lab, his sixth sense immediately screamed 'dangerous'. Unfortunately, right at that moment the ex-army doctor was desperately seeking the reason to continue living, and Sherlock's whole demeanour clearly broadcasted 'mystery' and 'adventure'. So, the voice of reason was completely ignored, and John fearlessly and recklessly threw himself into the mayhem that was Sherlock's daily life.

Of course John, being more normal than his extraordinary companion, realised with perfect clarity that such a crazy lifestyle was bound to have consequences, mostly related to aforementioned companion. But being the ex-army doctor, John thought of himself as being quite adept at handling extreme situations, so he decided to give this whole business a go.

The start was rather magnificent: Sherlock's amazing deductions, the incredible speed of his thoughts, the mad chase after the cabby, and the thrill of saving this brilliant but childishly foolish man. Yet, if there were any doubts in John's mind when they first met, they were swept away by Sherlock's charisma and irresistible magnetism.

Not to mention that the message in his fortune cookie on that fateful evening read: "Take a chance while you still have a choice". Not that John really had a choice: his former life was too bleak and too awful comparing to one he had now.

But besides being a proper genius, Sherlock nevertheless was human, and human psyche always tends to have its ups and downs. During the "Study in Pink" the younger man was as high as a kite, doped up on chills and thrills of the case. When it ended, however, the apathy set in rapidly, scaring the bejesus out of John.

Luckily enough, the next case came quite quickly and John breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that the worst was over. As it turned out, he was sadly mistaken.

It now was the sixth day of 'case drought', as John nicknamed it, and with each passing day Sherlock has seemingly spiralled further into madness. The previous case had ended quite badly as Sherlock had lost a few valuable members of his homeless network due to, as he acidly referred it, 'Scotland Yard's imbecilic meddling'. Sherlock and Lestrade had a couple of shouting matches over the matter, resulting in the Detective Inspector suspending the consulting detective for a month. John, of course, tried to set things right – more than once, in fact – but those two were too far gone to hear the voice of reason.

Cut off from participating in investigations, Sherlock made an attempt of striking a deal with Mycroft, but the older Holmes was too caught up in another international disaster to pay his sibling any attention. So Sherlock was doomed to continue sulking.

John attempted to help him as best as he could, but the irony of the whole situation was that the good doctor certainly wasn't as 'absolutely fine' as he tried to pretend.

It was because he had failed to save one of Sherlock's homeless operatives. The young girl, Dotty, died in his arms two minutes before the ambulance arrived. The paramedics repeatedly tried to explain to the devastated blond man that there was nothing he could have done, that the damage was too severe; but John, crushed under the tremendous weight of his failure, refused to be consoled by those explanations.

That was the beginning of each of two men's personal hell, and since they failed to seek support from each other, life at Baker Street 221B became absolutely unbearable.

Until the seventh day, that was.

It had rained heavily during the night, and in the morning the rain turned into a constant drizzle. The atmosphere in the flat was unbearably oppressive, and John made a hurried escape, leaving Sherlock alone with his gloomy thoughts and screeching wails of his violin. The ex-army medic was hoping to clear his head and try to find a way of resolving the current situation before his urge to commit suicide or strangle Sherlock to death would become too tempting to resist.

So he spent all day wandering the streets of London and simply letting everything go; and while he didn't manage to find a solution to their problem, his mood had improved so much that he decided to try and improve the situation at least.

Decision made, he hailed a taxi and made his way back to their home.

Everything was dark and quiet when he returned; so Sherlock either had decided to go out, too, or finally fell asleep on the sofa in the living room. Either way was fine with John; they had all the time in the world to set things straight between them and around them.

Comforted by those thoughts, John set his foot on the stairs leading to their living room when his phone suddenly beeped with an incoming message. Frowning, the ex-army medic reached for his mobile and pulled it out, peering at the short text on the screen.

**On the roof. SH**

The phone slipped from his suddenly numb fingers and he cursed a blue streak, scaling the stairs toward their flat.

The fire escape. It had to be the fire escape. There was no other way up there.

What the hell was that bloody fool thinking?

He was on the roof in a couple of minutes, anxious and dreading the worst.

What he didn't expect to see was the sight of Sherlock crying, his tears mixing with raindrops and his entire body shaking with suppressed sobs.

Sherlock's silk dressing gown and grey pyjamas were sodden wet, and John found himself lunging forward and dropping onto his knees beside his distraught friend, then reaching out to touch his shoulder carefully.

Sherlock winced and turned his head, his red-rimmed eyes locking onto John's sympathetic ones.

"John," he said quietly, visibly taking control of himself. "You got my message, I presume?"

"Of course I got your message, Sherlock," John hastened to reassure, moving forward and sliding his arms around Sherlock's slim body. "Why?"

The younger man, reassured by his presence, closed his eyes and tentatively leaned against John, causing the doctor to tighten his embrace protectively. "I just wanted to know what it feels like."

"What what feels like, Sherlock?" John frowned in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Crying," the dark-haired man said simply. "I can cry on occasion, when a case demands it, but I have never cried because of loss. When Dotty died..," he paused, his voice catching slightly. "I couldn't... They always called me a freak, because I never cried when I was hurt. I just... I couldn't let them win, John, couldn't let them break me..."

Tears were streaming down Sherlock's pale face now as he cried out his pain, his despair, his sorrow. And John was listening, cradling his tortured friend closer and stroking his back gently.

Finally, after a while, Sherlock's tears subsided, and he shivered slightly, trying to cling closer to John in order to restore some needed warmth.

It was time to get out of the cold rain, so John patted Sherlock on the back and carefully pushed him away.

"Alright, up you go," he said firmly. "Feeling better?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, his expression thoughtful. "Much better, in fact. Thank you, John."

"Nothing to thank me for, Sherlock," John smiled slightly. "Time to get you back into the flat and into some dry clothes. Take a hot shower, and I'll make you a nice cup of tea. We wouldn't want you to catch a cold in those wet clothes, would we?"

John's matter-of-fact voice drew Sherlock back to reality, returning an expression of confidence onto his face.

"No, we wouldn't," he agreed shortly, pushing himself up, and the two friends carefully made their way back into the flat.

It took half an hour for Sherlock to take a shower, change into the dry clothes, and drink his tea; after that John escorted his yawning flatmate into his bedroom and made sure Sherlock was comfortably tucked in.

"Okay, a full night's sleep for you now, Sherlock," John said amiably. "And tomorrow we will sort everything out, alright?"

Sherlock nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. "Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock," the doctor answered, taking a step towards the door.

But Sherlock wasn't finished yet.

"John," the younger man said quietly, causing his flatmate to stop and turn around. "Thank you... for listening."

The blond man smiled broadly. "You're always welcome, Sherlock."

The great detective hummed, closing his eyes, and the doctor headed for the door. Near the threshold he stopped again, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. The temptation was too strong to resist.

"Oh, and Sherlock," he paused, the smile evident in his tone. "Next time you feel the urge to cry... just use the shower, will you?"

The sound of the closing door was accompanied by Sherlock's amused chuckle.

**And that's the last chapter for this year.**

**Happy New Year, everyone, and see you in 2012!**


	3. More Than You Know

**This time, it's a combination of two prompts: 'No shit, Sherlock!' from Nychta and 'Unusual dinner' from Rianna. The collaboration turned to be a bit... strange, but I hope you'd like it!  
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**Oh, and I'm finally back into the swing of things, so updates should be more often now!  
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**Beta: Pilikia18  
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When you live with Sherlock Holmes day after day, you gradually get used to regard extraordinary as absolutely normal. You simply have no choice; otherwise your brain may eventually short-circuit from the sheer amount of all these incredible things.

Being an ex-army doctor, John Watson has learned to adapt exceptionally well. But of course it doesn't mean that he just pretends to be astonished by Sherlock's brilliance. All of the doctor's emotions are still genuine, but in due course they sort of became smoothed over, balanced on a level that suits the world's only consulting detective naturally.

Of course that process wasn't smooth at all. The doctor and the detective went through thick and thin, had quite a few impressive fallouts, but still managed to find their way back to each other every time. Because both of them are confident in knowing one specific piece of information: they belong with each other. Not in a sense of "till death us part" (although, to tell the truth, it's John's worst nightmare – the day when he fails to save Sherlock, of foolishly gets himself killed) – it's more like two halves of the whole, fitting together perfectly. But for such a balance to work, some rules need to be obeyed. In Sherlock and John's case, the main rule is as John exactly put it long ago: 'If we are together, everything else is just a question of time and maybe a bit of effort'. And when the good doctor said "effort", he certainly didn't mean on his brilliant companion's side, of course.

John Watson is a clever man in everything concerning the real, boring, everyday life. Sherlock usually regards this side of life as 'necessary evil' and patiently endures it for John's benefit; but John knows perfectly that if this normal life suddenly disappears, Sherlock Holmes would instantly cease to exist.

It sounds strange, of course, but John Watson is able to prove it.

The thing is, John may not be as smart as Sherlock, but he is perfectly capable of making some conclusions of his own. For example, the fact of Sherlock being a genius?

John is certain that it is so only because of a presence of normality in this world.

You can be different only in comparison. Take away one part of the equation – and the whole thing becomes meaningless.

Of course, John is NEVER going to tell Sherlock about it. Because the great detective would unavoidably point out that genius has different levels, and "It would be marvellous not to explain every damn thing every time to numerous idiots and by the way: where's Lestrade with that 'baffling' case he promised me two hours ago?"…

Yeah, you get the picture. According to the world's only consulting detective, a genius needs an audience. An audience which listens to his every word, fetches his things, does the shopping, and cleans their flat. Getting in return grumbling, sleepless nights due to the violin concertos and seemingly self-renewing mess in their flat.

But that's the other side of the coin with geniuses – they are never concerned about the trivial things. Because, as we have established already, this equation has at least two variables.

So, deduction and shopping, genius and normality…

Wait a minute, THIS is definitely NOT normal.

The black smoke, which was steadily emerging out of the windows of their living room, forced John to swear under his breath.

"Stop right there!" he commanded, hastily paying the fare and practically catapulting from the car. "And keep the change!"

The cabby, obviously shocked by John's outburst, sped away as soon as his passenger almost slammed the door closed. For a moment, the ex-army medic felt a stab of regret about his behaviour, but it evaporated as soon as he saw his impossible flatmate sitting on the steps and leaning back against their front door with his head lowered.

John quickly scanned his friend's slumped figure with his eyes. No apparent bleeding, clothes intact, but the coat isn't buttoned and the scarf is hanging from a pocket instead of being wrapped around the owner's neck – so obviously Sherlock pulled the coat on in a hurry. The smoke, Sherlock outside of the flat, and… was it his laptop in Sherlock's hands?

"What did you do?" John said in exasperation, halting in a few steps away from his friend and desperately fighting an urge to grab Sherlock and shake some sense into him.

The great detective jerked in surprise and his head shot up, allowing John to see his pale face, covered in black smudges. He blinked a few times in obvious confusion, and then his eyes finally seemed to focus on his blogger.

"John", he said tiredly. "At last. I wanted to send you a text, but I forgot my phone inside".

"And judging by the fact that you're sitting here like an idiot, you've done something to our flat", John surmised, trying to keep the notes of desperation out of his voice. Then a sudden thought hit him. "Oh my god, Mrs Hudson!"

"She is off to see her long-time friend in Dorchester, John, calm down", Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal, once again focusing his gaze on the screen. "She said she planned to return tomorrow, which is a good thing, because it takes nearly 24 hours for these fumes to evaporate".

"Fumes?" John repeated, frowning. "Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"

"Experiment. Unexpected after-effect", the thin genius explained shortly. Then, risking a glance at John, added, "But I managed to open the windows before retreating, it should speed up the decontamination significantly".

John counted to ten. Clenched and unclenched his fists. Took a deep breath.

_Stay calm, John. No matter how mad you are at him – it's no use to lose your temper._

Sherlock was once again engrossed in studying something on the screen. "John, I know I promised you not to perform dangerous experiments in our flat, but in my defence I can say that it wasn't supposed…"

Right at this moment, John lost it. Crossing the distance in a few strides, he took hold of the lapels of Sherlock's coat and jerked his insufferable flatmate up in one powerful tug. The detective clutched the laptop in his hands instinctively, preventing it from crashing down onto the ground.

Of course, considering the fact of said laptop remaining open, Sherlock and John were sort of divided by a barrier - which was pressing against the smaller man's chest quite uncomfortably.

"Put it down. NOW", the doctor demanded in a stern voice, unconsciously tightening his hold on the coat lapels.

The taller man, not at all put out by this obvious display of possessiveness, curled his lips in an amused smile. "I would love to, but, taking into consideration our current position, it is hardly possible. Unless you want me to drop it…?" one elegant eyebrow was quirked up.

Still holding his gaze, the ex-army medic let go of one lapel, seized the laptop and threw it on the pavement without batting an eyelid.

Sherlock's other eyebrow joined the first. The doctor answered with a frighteningly pleasant smile, letting go of the lapel and taking a step back.

"You owe me one", John said simply, pointing towards the faintly smoking laptop. "So what's the plan, genius?"

Sherlock's face lit up with an expression of mischief. "Turn around, John".

There was the sound of a stopping car behind his back, and the doctor risked a glance over his shoulder. A black sedan?

"It must be very bad if you actually considered involving Mycroft", John said matter-of-factly.

A flash of annoyance crossed Sherlock's features. "There are many people in London who have black cars similar to my brother's. Mycroft is not everything".

"Whatever you say", John agreed simply, tilting his head. "Now what?"

Sherlock answered with an enigmatic smile and waved his hand in the direction of the car.

John heaved a sigh, turned on his heels and took a few steps separating him with the sedan. "Don't forget to take care of the rubbish, Sherlock".

The dark-haired man picked up the destroyed laptop, carried it over to the rubbish bags and threw it on top of them. Then he strolled casually towards John, who was waiting for him near the open rear door of the car. "Get in", Sherlock commanded, although in a soft and warm voice.

John hesitated – he was accustomed to Sherlock always diving first inside each and every car they travelled in. "Sherlock…"

The younger man placed his palm on the small of his friend's back and carefully nudged him forward. "Just bear with me, John. I'll explain everything later".

At first, the doctor moved to obey, but then faltered, turning to face his flatmate and looking at him closely. "Sherlock, you DO realise that all of this", he vaguely waved his arm around, "is kind of weird?"

"Not in the slightest", Sherlock objected, unruffled, and applied another push to the small of John's back.

The doctor shook his head slightly and climbed into the car. The detective followed, gracefully sliding into the seat beside him.

"We're set to go", Sherlock announced. "And hurry up – we're a bit late on schedule".

"Sure thing", the driver said shortly, and threw the car into gear…

* * *

><p>On their way to unknown destination, the chain of surprises for John Watson continued.<p>

"Where are we going, Sherlock?" the doctor asked, gazing through the window as the car rolled along the streets of London.

"Northolt", Sherlock said simply, fishing his phone out of his coat's pocket.

John nodded, still not registering his flatmate's words, and glanced briefly in Sherlock direction. The dark-haired man, as usually, was typing away on his Blackberry, and John, nodding again, turned back to the window…

Wait a minute, the Blackberry? But Sherlock said…

John narrowed his eyes. "Sherlock", his voice was frighteningly quiet and calm. "Sherlock, can you kindly explain to me, what the HELL is going ON?"

Two words in a raised voice, Sherlock noted to himself automatically. John is furious for real, and this can end… very bad.

Time to lay his cards on the table.

"Jordan, pull over, please", the detective called out, meeting his friend's reproachful stare without flinching.

"But, Mister Holmes…"

"Jordan", Sherlock's voice was laced with so much authority, that the driver virtually snapped to attention and hastened to obey his passenger's command. The car turned around the corner and rolled into a stop. "Thank you".

Without saying a word, John simply raised his eyebrow in enquiry.

Sherlock took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts. "John, I…"

The doctor shook his head. "Sherlock, you have a bloody annoying tendency to complicate things. What are you up to this time?"

Sherlock looked into John's eyes – so warm, smiling, understanding – and the words just tumbled out. "Dinner. In an underwater hotel. In Sweden."

John gaped at him. "WHAT?"

The detective rolled his eyes. "Just like I expected. Yes, John, you heard everything correctly – I'm about to give in to sentiments. But not for long, or my mind is going to be permanently damaged", he added warningly.

John bared his teeth in a wide smile. "No shit, Sherlock. You don't DO sentiments. It's definitely a scheme".

Another eye roll. "John, sometimes you can be incredibly dense. Alright, this is a scheme with a goal of kidnapping you. Would that suit you better?"

The smile evaporated, replaced by an expression of mild disbelief and then confusion. Then the doctor frowned. "You're joking, right? It's for a case then, isn't it?"

The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched up in a brief smile. "Partially – yes".

John nodded with usual acceptance. "Okay".

The detective held his gaze a few moments more, then gave a nod of his own. "Excellent. Jordan, Northolt".

The driver sighed in relief, guiding the car into a U-turn and out of the side street. "Yes, Mister Holmes".

The rest of the way to the airport was spent in silence: John gazed out of the window at the scenery, and Sherlock furiously typed away on his phone with an expression of an extreme determination on his face.

* * *

><p>Considering that they were going to another country, John hoped that Sherlock hasn't forgotten to take care about the details of their unexpected trip, as in passports, tickets, transport and accommodation. There was also a small issue of them departing in a hurry, and therefore having no chance to pack for a trip. So the good doctor was reasonably concerned, and decided to bring up this subject as soon as they arrived at the airport.<p>

Well, at least until Jordan retrieved two familiar suitcases out of the car's boot.

Sherlock, who was watching John out of the corner of his eye, immediately registered the change in his friend's facial expression and sighed, preparing for the next round of heated discussion.

To his immense surprise, there wasn't any: the good doctor just ground his teeth, grabbed his suitcase, and made his way inside the building. Sherlock, amused by John's reaction, picked up the suitcase and hurried to catch up with his flatmate.

John stood a few steps away from the doors, waiting for him. "Considering that we went here instead of Heathrow", the doctor began as soon as the detective passed through the entrance of the terminal, "I'm going to assume you have pulled some strings. So, where to?"

Sherlock managed NOT to look surprised and waved his hand in the correct direction. "This way. Are you alright?"

John picked up his suitcase and started walking. "Yes. Why?"

"You looked a bit…" Sherlock paused, searching for the adequate word, "tense… a few moments ago. I realise that I should have explained everything at the beginning, but…"

"Now THAT would've been strange", John interrupted. "Don't worry, Sherlock, I'm already used to your sudden ideas. Although…"

"I was planning to tell you as soon as you returned, but you were late, and there was just enough time for an experiment…"

"Which obviously has gone wrong", John finished. "Well, it doesn't matter now, does it? Let's just hope that the rest of your plan isn't going to backfire".

"Your enthusiasm is overwhelming", Sherlock commented sarcastically, passing him and taking a lead.

John ignored this obvious attempt to wind him up. "Speaking of plans… Are you going to tell me about the unclassified details?"

By this time they passed the terminal (due to Sherlock's efficient handling of the formalities) and stepped out onto the airfield.

"We have a case in Stockholm", Sherlock explained shortly, heading towards one of the hangars. "A fairly easy one. It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. We're going to spend the night in a hotel, and in the morning we'll be off to Västerås. That's all I can say".

"Fair enough", John said succinctly, causing Sherlock to glance at him in mild amusement. The doctor met his gaze with a perfect calm. "As I had mentioned before, I'm already used to your way of living, Sherlock. It's all fine".

Sherlock decided to drop the subject – after all, John was following him and now he finally had everything under control.

* * *

><p>The case in Stockholm took more time that Sherlock expected – namely, almost three hours instead of two. It was about a haunted house; the family complained about strange sounds in their home, and some members of the family were positive they even saw a ghost. But the solution to that mystery turned to be a trivial one – it was the nephew trying to avenge the death of his father (incidental, as Sherlock found out). It was an accident, but the young man refused to believe that. So first Sherlock did a thorough search and disabled all ghost-projecting equipment, and then spent half an hour proving to the nephew that his father's death really was an accident.<p>

All that time John was near – helping and supporting his friend, and in the last stage even managing to talk some sense into an adamant youngster.

The look that Sherlock gave him at that moment literally warmed John's soul.

They left the house with Sherlock looking totally worn out – he never liked the emotional bits during the cases – and John habitually taking care of getting them to the hotel, where Sherlock, to John's astonishment, immediately fell asleep as soon as he got to the bed.

In the morning they left Stockholm and headed first to Västerås, and then proceeded to the Lake Mälaren, where John got his main surprise.

In the evening there was dinner. Dinner in the small underwater hotel – nothing fancy, just a few tasteful dishes, and a bottle of an expensive wine, accompanied by a basket of fruits.

And after that they sat together and watched the fish swimming to and fro in the rays of light from the lamps outside.

John felt absolutely happy. And Sherlock…

Sherlock watched John much longer than he looked at the fish.

Finally John registered the fact of Sherlock looking at him, and turned to face his friend, flashing him a warm smile.

"You know, Sherlock, when you said that you're going to give in to sentiments, I started expecting a catch. But now… Hell, I can't even find the words to explain…"

Sherlock answered with a smile of his own – although, as John didn't fail to notice, a bit mischievous – and flopped down onto the bed. "Actually, John", he said, stretching languidly and putting his hands behind his head. "In these circumstances words are irrelevant, don't you agree?"

John grinned and mirrored his friend's position on the other bed. There was, in fact, a phrase more than adequate as a reply to Sherlock's statement. And besides, taking into account the fact that Sherlock despised repeats…

He took a deep breath and reached out to switch off the small bra on the wall over his head. "No shit, Sherlock!"

The answering huff sounded like music for his ears. Their status quo was restored once again.

Smiling in satisfaction, John drifted into sleep.

Sherlock waited for the moment when his friend's breathing evened out, then got up, cleaned up the table, switched the lights out and carefully tucked John in.

"More than you know, John", he said cryptically, returning to his bed and laying down. "More than you know".


	4. That One Creepy Neighbour

**The third prompt, which turned out to be sort of crossover: 'Neighbour'.**

**Read on and tell me what do you think!**

It all began when a mysterious neighbour moved into the 221C on Baker Street. Well, for Sherlock, anyway.

If you ask John, he would probably tell you it all began when Mycroft habitually kidnapped him near Tesco. The good doctor was desperately trying not to lose his hold on three plastic bags with groceries when the familiar black sedan seemed to appear practically out of nowhere and stopped in front of him. The rear door opened, and the older Holmes leaned forward in his seat, looking at John's struggles in mild amusement.

"Is there anything I can do to aid you, John?" Mycroft enquired politely, earning a withering glance from the ex-army medic.

John put his bags down on the ground, straightened up and crossed his arms on his chest, staring at Mycroft with irritation.

"What do you want?" he asked sharply. "And don't tell me you're here to help, because I'm not going to believe that."

A small, knowing smile lifted the corners of the politician's lips. "Another row with my dearest brother, I presume?"

John's jaw tightened. "Spying on us again, Mycroft?" he practically spat. "Which camera did Sherlock miss when he was cleaning our flat from the evidence of your 'concern'?"

The smile vanished from the older Holmes' face, replaced with a cold expression. "Unfortunately, he was quite thorough the last time. But if you think I keep surveillance on your flat purely for my entertainment, then you're sadly mistaken. I can read you with the same ease Sherlock does, John. There are clear signs…"

"Ah," the doctor raised his hand, interrupting him. "Not interested. Get to the point."

"As you wish," Mycroft leaned back in his seat and snapped his fingers. In a blink of an eye the driver appeared beside John, took the grocery bags and put them in a boot of the sedan – all without saying a single word. The doctor was about to physically intervene when the politician spoke again. "The reason of our meeting is a very delicate matter, John. I would prefer not to discuss it in the middle of the street. Get into the car, please. It's very important."

The ex-army medic looked at the driver who remained standing near the car's boot – relaxed, but ready to act at the first command of his employer, - and climbed inside the car with the expression of extreme discontent.

"I had no doubts you would make the right choice, John," Mycroft said with approval. "You may resume your duty, Gordon. The special route, about half an hour, and then take us to Baker Street."

"Yes, sir," the driver closed the rear door and got back into his seat. The engine came to life and the car set out to its destination.

"The special route?" John enquired, rubbing his shoulder absent-mindedly. Mycroft was right: there was a quarrel between him and Sherlock, which resulted in the good doctor storming out to Tesco to avoid the temptation of slaughtering his impossible flatmate.

"I need time to brief you on the documents which you're going to give Sherlock," the older Holmes said, reaching for his briefcase and pulling a thin yellow paper folder out.

John was already accustomed to Mycroft's straightforward demands, but preferred to get more specific information each time it happened. "And why would I do that?"

There was another distinctive feature in Mycroft's communication with John: Sherlock's brother often was a little less discreet when he spoke with the doctor.

"Because I need to ensure Sherlock's absence in London – and, preferably, even in England, - for the entire next week," the older Holmes explained matter-of-factly.

The only indication of John's reaction was a slight quirk of one eyebrow. "For what reason?"

"A sufficient time and space is required to renovate 221C for a new tenant," Mycroft explained in his usual vague way and, seeing as John opened his mouth to ask a question, added calmly, "whose identity for various reasons is ought to stay secret."

John snorted, wondering briefly if Mycroft's way of speaking was an inborn trait. "You know perfectly well that it won't be a secret for too long. As soon as Sherlock gets back…"

"It will continue to be secret, John, I assure you," Mycroft interrupted with a slight notes of impatience in his voice. "And besides, the aforementioned tenant won't be occupying 221C for very long."

John raised his eyebrow again. "Must be a special someone if you're willing to into such troubles?"

Mycroft tilted his head, and his lips stretched in one of his patented polite smiles. "You are very observant, John."

John certainly wasn't a Holmes, but he had his own talents. For example, being the ex-army field surgeon, he tended to notice things. And he saw Mycroft often enough to recognise this particular smile. He even nicknamed it as 'Not your level of security clearance'.

But, being a soldier as well as a doctor, John Hamish Watson had another character trait: he was, as Sherlock had phrased it once 'quite persistent, sometimes even annoyingly so'. And that was exactly the reason John chose to disregard Mycroft's warning smile, fearlessly plunging ahead.

"A matter of national importance again, I presume?" he enquired, reaching for the folder and taking it from Mycroft.

The older man gave a small huff but let go of the documents. "You have no idea how serious the situation is, John. All I can say is that the aforementioned person needs to literally disappear. And there's no better place for him to do it. Hiding in plain sight. Very effective, I think you'd agree."

John gave a groan of despair. "A bloody art of disguise. Are you telling me I have to deal not only with Sherlock, but with another someone just like him? Because it's a bit over the top, Mycroft, I've got to tell you."

"You've got only Sherlock to deal with, John, I promise that," the older Holmes reassured him calmly. "And make certain he won't do anything stupid."

"Like breaking into 221C the moment we get back from wherever you're planning to send us?" asked John almost amiably, already accepting the fact they won't be shaking off this sudden assignment.

"Amongst other things," Mycroft gave a brief nod. "Now I need you to look through these documents and ask any questions that would arise…"

* * *

><p>After discussing the documents and learning about Mycroft's plan in details, John asked to be dropped off two blocks from their house.<p>

"Sherlock is probably too busy sulking to notice your car, Mycroft, but let's take some precautions," John said, getting out of the car and waiting for the driver to hand him the grocery bags. "You know him; when he's stroppy – he's totally unpredictable."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that," Mycroft replied. "But I believe I've just given you perfect ammunition against his… stubbornness."

It took a bit of an effort for John not to grin – sometimes Mycroft was so upper crust that his restrained indignation looked almost endearing. "I hope so, Mycroft. Thank you for the ride," he took the grocery bags from the driver and redistributed them so the weight in both of his hands was equal.

"If you encounter any problems, let me know," the older Holmes instructed, closing the rear door of the sedan. John nodded his agreement, already thinking about his upcoming conversation with Sherlock, and watched as the black car disappeared around the corner – in the opposite direction from Baker Street 221B.

The doctor was left alone with his bags and Mycroft's folder (which he, after a brief musings, put inside one of the bags); all he had to do now is get home and handle the situation according his (and Mycroft's) plan.

If Sherlock was home, that is.

Five minute walk – and John was near their front door. The windows of the living room were dark – Sherlock probably went out… or was in the bedroom behind the locked door.

But wherever the detective chosen to take residence at this moment, John's task wasn't going to be an easy one. Especially considering the fact that Mycroft, true to his word, kept the identity of their mysterious future neighbour secret.

Well, as John said once, he was never bored.

Lowering his bags onto the ground, the blond man slid his key into the lock and opened the door.

"Sherlock, are you home?" he called out, carrying the bags into the hall and taking off his coat. There was no answer, but John could swear he heard a sound from upstairs – some muted clicking and rustling of papers. "Fine, suit yourself. I'll leave the dinner in the fridge."

There was a sound of the sofa creaking as Sherlock obviously changed his position, and then the floor lamp was switched on.

"Don't bother," his flatmate answered from the living room in a bored drawl. "There's no case; I have no need to accumulate the energy."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're reading now, yes? And if that's so, how about refuelling your brain?" John replied conversationally, grabbing the bags once again and making his way upstairs. At the top of the stairs he turned into the kitchen and went straight to the fridge.

"We discussed this topic hundreds of times, John," Sherlock replied lazily, but a moment later the doctor heard a sound which could only have been made by a stack of papers hitting the floor. After that something was placed on a coffee table – a laptop, no doubt, - and John grinned, unmistakably recognising Sherlock's careful footsteps. The detective clearly had switched into his investigative mode, and that meant the good doctor was about to become an object of his friend's enquiry.

Pointedly keeping his back turned, John mentally started to count down.

_Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five…_

"And where did my dearest brother intercept you?"

_Bingo!_

This was one of their favourite games, invented and perfected during the time they were living together: when a case drought struck, John was more than happy to provide his flatmate with so much-needed distraction – usually on his own initiative, but there were times when Mycroft Holmes deigned to take part in those ventures. Actually, the older Holmes' collaboration always turned out to be two-fold: apart from the cases, he provided his brother with a chance to detect the evidence of his meetings with John.

"If you're waiting for the usual question, you can skip right ahead," the blond doctor opened the fridge and started putting groceries inside. "Unless you want me to make some encouraging noises, of course?"

His flatmate halted a step away from him and sniffed carefully.

"Mycroft's deodorant is unmistakable," Sherlock commented, reaching out towards the bag where the folder was. "Judging by the intensity of the smell coming from your clothes, you spent some time near my brother, most likely in his car."

John slapped his hand away. "Yes, I did. And, predictably, he foisted some documents off on me. You know how he gets if he needs something. I was obliged to take the folder, but that doesn't mean a thing. I'll get rid of it later, don't worry."

In one swift movement Sherlock extracted the folder from the bag, ignoring John's indignant exclamation, and disappeared back into the living-room, carrying his loot and intent on perusing it on his favourite sofa.

The ex-army medic continued to sort out the bags, mentally keeping his fingers crossed. He had done all he could to bait the trap; now everything depended on how good Mycroft's materials were.

So John waited. And waited. And waited…

"You were saying something about dinner?" Sherlock enquired from the living room nonchalantly, and John did his best to stifle a disappointed sigh. Mycroft Holmes was a clever man, maybe even the cleverest one on Earth, in John's humble opinion; but when he tried to involve Sherlock in his plans, all bets were off. Most of the time the younger Holmes' behaviour was hard to predict, and Mycroft's well-thought schemes crashed against his stubbornness like ocean waves against a solid rock. But ocean can gradually weaken any rock, and Mycroft Holmes was a very patient and inventive man, so after a brief musings John decided not to give up.

"Yes, and you said you don't need food right now," John finished putting groceries into the fridge and shut the door.

"I remember what I said," his flatmate answered, appearing in the kitchen doorway. "But I need to discuss something with you, and, according to my observation, it's easier to speak with you when you're not hungry."

"Charming, as always," John remarked, opening the fridge again and getting out necessary products for dinner. "Right, I need some time to prepare the food. And I don't mind you keeping me company, as long as you don't get in my way."

Sherlock snorted and, wandering towards the table, sat down on his accustomed chair. "As I was saying, hunger never improves your mood. What are we having?"

"Lasagne from Angelo's," the doctor opened the microwave, calmly removed the bowl with an unidentified acid-green substance, cleaned the microwave – just in case, - and put the food inside.

Sherlock, meanwhile, darted into the living room, snatched Mycroft's folder and, reappearing in the kitchen, reclaimed his seat. Placing the folder on the table, he opened it and spread the papers out on his half of the table's surface.

John turned around and, spotting the result of Sherlock's handiwork, rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Is that another display of your 'You need to eat, and I need to talk' habit?"

"I didn't say I was going to eat; I just stated that we need to talk and mentioned my observation about you having problems with listening on an empty stomach," the detective objected. "You jumped to conclusion."

The doctor crossed his arms on his chest and tilted his head to the right. "Fine, then I will eat all the lasagne by myself."

His flatmate's lips twitched into a semblance of a smile. "If you expected to scare me into eating with this announcement, John, you seriously miscalculated."

"I think you know me well enough to realise I would never force you to do anything against your will. Except those occasions when you seem to be a threat to your own health, of course," the blond turned away again and, opening a cupboard, pulled out two plates; depositing them onto the table, he reached into the drawer for forks and knives. "No pressure," he added amiably, noticing Sherlock's narrowed eyes.

The microwave chimed, and John got his dinner out. Depositing the lasagne onto his plate and pointedly leaving the second one empty, John sat down at the table. For a few moments Sherlock just looked at him, then shook his head slightly and, with usual grace, dropped down onto his own seat.

"So?" prompted John, digging into his food.

Apparently, it was all the encouragement the younger man needed. Taking a deep breath, he launched into one of his usual breakneck-speed speeches, leaving John no other choice but to nod and hum in right moments.

John had just enough time to finish his dinner while Sherlock talked. The doctor even managed to clean and put his plate back to the cupboard, all the while thinking about a new post for his blog, when Sherlock's next phrase got his attention.

"Oh, and by the way, John: my dear brother left a note for you in this folder," the detective said imperturbably. "But I don't think you're going to like it."

"Really?" John dried his hands with a kitchen towel. "How so?"

"See for yourself," Sherlock picked up a piece of paper and held it out for his friend to take. "It concerns your blog."

John took the paper and quickly looked it through, then huffed in irritation. "Mycroft in his usual style. How could two missing Florentine cameos be a matter of national importance?"

"Easily, if MI-6 is involved," Sherlock replied thoughtfully, gathering the papers. "Pack your suitcase and take care about all necessary details, John; we're leaving in the morning."

John did his best to hide a triumphant smile. Hook, line and sinker.

Mycroft was terrific, as always.

And John was still going to take notes about this case, even if they stayed on a hard drive of his laptop.

* * *

><p>Despite his ordinary appearance, John Watson is not as simple as it seems. He can be stubborn, he can be reasonable, he can hold a grudge for weeks and forgive in an instant. But his main virtue he always prides himself on is the ability to quickly access the situation. It saved his life in Afghanistan many times – well, at least until he was shot, - and continued to help him after he returned to London.<p>

There was, of course, that little mishap with their first meeting with Mycroft, but John can say in his defence that Mycroft, like his younger brother, is a man you can hardly predict or calculate.

But, owing to the fact Mycroft had developed a habit of kidnapping John from time to time, the ex-army doctor gradually learned to see a man behind the mask.

That was the exact reason John didn't write his usual notes during that week they spent in Florence. Instead, he drew a scheme – a strange and complicated one that made sense only to him. Even Sherlock, who once walked into their hotel room and spotted his friend adding strange symbols to the scheme, didn't do or ask anything except glancing at the paper in passing and snorting in amusement.

So, about those notes: if you cared enough to ask John how he and Sherlock spent that week in Florence, the good doctor would probably frown a little, then purse his lips for a moment, and finally tell you there was a bit of running across the city, jumping from roof to roof, and even a couple of occasions when he pushed Sherlock out of the bullet's path.

It took exactly a week for Sherlock to solve the case and to find what he was looking for. After that there was no reason for them to stay in Florence, and Sherlock booked them two tickets to London, to John's immense surprise.

Seeing the expression on his flatmate's face, the great detective flashed him a smug grin. "Never thought I could astonish you by doing such a simple task, John."

The doctor, never being the one to hide his emotions, matched his friend's grin with his own, slightly mischievous one. "I have no doubt in your abilities, Sherlock. It's just I've never seen you so homesick."

The younger man did his best to stay dispassionate. "I'm not homesick, I'm merely curious."

"Curious about what, exactly?" John turned away and walked across the room towards the wardrobe. Pulling his suitcase out, he started to pack his things – their flight was leaving in a couple of hours.

"Exactly?" Sherlock repeated, remaining in his comfortable armchair and watching John's movements with mild interest. "Well, since you asked – I'm curious about the real reason of my brother's actions. It should have been something really interesting if Mycroft needed me out of England. And let's not forget your voluntary participation. You're all about helping people, so there's obviously a third party involved. The question is: who is it, and why did you decide to help him?"

"Mycroft said the situation was very serious. Made it sound like a question of life and death," John finished packing and closed his suitcase.

"Mycroft is always like that," Sherlock commented, springing up from the chair and following John's example with the packing. "But I don't recall you being so eager to help him each and every time he asks. You always make a choice. What it was this time? What made you agree to help?"

"Gut feeling, I guess," John shrugged his shoulders. "Although I can't deny Mycroft was quite persuasive."

"Oh, I see," the detective folded his clothes neatly and placed them in his suitcase. "The famous Doctor Watson's hunch. Well, in this case I have no objections. Especially as because I was bored and really needed a distraction, so my brother's offer was quite timely."

A slight frown creased John's forehead. "If this was a distraction, does that mean you're going to investigate Mycroft's secret as soon as we get back?"

"It depends," Sherlock closed his suitcase and reached for his scarf and coat. "Only if there will be nothing of interest from Lestrade."

John called the reception and asked for a taxi to the airport. Then he pulled on his coat and picked up his suitcase. "Why bother? I mean, if Mycroft deemed necessary to get you out of the country, maybe it's better to leave this case alone?"

"I believe I already answered your question a few moments ago, John," Sherlock's voice was tinted with agitation. "You should have paid attention, John; you know full well I despise repeating myself."

"You are talking about Lestrade having an interesting case for you?" the doctor clarified. "Yes, I heard that. But the thing is, I know you, Sherlock. Sometimes you don't know where and when to stop."

The detective opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the phone on the bedside table. Wisely deciding not to continue, Sherlock tied his scarf around his neck and pulled on his coat. "Our taxi, I presume."

"I think so," John took the call and, having listened to whatever was said, thanked the caller and hung up, simultaneously nodding towards the door. "So - goodbye, Florence, hello, London?"

"Hopefully," the dark-haired genius picked up his suitcase and left the room.

'And hopefully, Mycroft's mysterious tenant would be gone by the time we get back,' the doctor thought, following his friend…

* * *

><p>No such luck, of course – as soon as they crossed the threshold of their home, Sherlock stopped and sniffed the air.<p>

"Someone's been renovating 221C," he announced, crossing the hall and stopping in front of the door to the basement flat. "We're not alone anymore."

"Sherlock," John said warningly, putting his hands on his hips. "If you think I'm going to haul these suitcases upstairs on my own, you'd better think again."

The younger man turned his head to look at him, his lips curved in an amused grin. "There's no need to distract me in such forceful way, John. And besides, my tool kit is at the bottom of my suitcase, so…"

"Right," the doctor grabbed both suitcases and marched up two flights of stairs towards their flat.

As soon as his flatmate disappeared from view, Sherlock swiftly turned towards their landlady's door and, taking two necessary steps in its direction, raised his hand and knocked two times.

He didn't have to wait long; a moment later the door opened, and he found himself at the receiving end of Mrs. Hudson's warm welcome: a beaming smile and a warm hug, which he, to his utter surprise, found he actually missed.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said happily, letting him go and taking a step back to give her favourite tenant a quick once-over. "You look good. When did you get back? And where's John?"

"He's upstairs, Mrs Hudson, taking care of our luggage," the detective unbuttoned his coat and tugged his scarf off his neck, tucking it into his coat's pocket. "I need to ask you a couple of questions, if you don't mind."

"Of course not," the landlady motioned him inside. "I'll make you a cuppa."

"That would be marvellous," Sherlock finally pulled his coat off and, quickly darting back into the hall, threw it on the banister. After that he returned to his landlady and followed her into the small, but cosy kitchen.

She didn't let him speak until he was seated comfortably at the table, a mug of steaming tea in his hands and a plate with homemade biscuits in front of him.

Surprisingly enough, he had no problems with not speaking – just watching Mrs Hudson putter about brought him into a strange reflective state, and resulted in a realisation that he, Sherlock Holmes, had indeed been homesick.

Of course, he kept this information to himself; he had an image he needed to keep up, after all, and showing himself as a human wasn't really an option. So he simply proceeded to drink his tea and even ate five biscuits – the last thing he needed was Mrs Hudson refusing to answer his questions.

She was, however, the first to bring the topic up. "You were saying something about two questions, Sherlock," she said when he put his empty mug back on the table. "What do you need to know?"

She gave him permission to ask, and he never was the one to lose an opportunity. "I realise Mycroft had already sworn you to secrecy, but have you actually seen your new tenant from 221C? And were there any other visitors in our absence?"

"Well, your brother mentioned something about keeping everything secret," their landlady confirmed as she sat down across from him and folded her arms on the table. "I told him I have no habit of spying on my tenants, and it was a shame on him to presume…"

Sherlock snorted. "I don't think your spying abilities were required this time, Mrs Hudson. My brother did everything to send me away from London, so he obviously needed the whole affair to stay secret."

"I haven't seen anybody coming out or going into 221C the whole week, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson announced. "Except, maybe…"

"Yes?" the dark-haired man visibly perked up.

"I can't believe I almost forgot about it! There was one occasion, it happened two days ago. You asked about visitors – there was one," the landlady said in a conspiratorial voice. "A young man, tall, with short dark hair. He was wearing glasses, and carried a briefcase. I saw him leaving the house when I was returning from Tesco. Other than that – nothing."

"Interesting," Sherlock remarked, getting up. "Thank you for the tea and information, Mrs Hudson. Our mysterious guest is still here, I presume?"

"Considering that your brother promised to return the key to 221C personally as soon as the person in question leaves – I think yes," the landlady said with certainty. "I hope you're not going to do something stupid, Sherlock," she added worriedly.

The detective grinned. "John already expressed the same concern. You don't need…"

Whatever he was going to say next was drowned by the loud knocking on the door.

"Speaking of John," Sherlock remarked calmly, heading towards the door and opening it to reveal his flatmate. Seeing John's expression, Sherlock swiftly and correctly deduced that he was about to hear what exactly his friend thought on his account.

He needed a distraction, and he needed it now.

As soon as he realised this simple fact, his mind immediately found the solution.

Mrs Hudson's biscuits.

In spite of his not-so-peaceful past, John always was – and continued to be, - a very domestic person. Home to him meant a place where he could relax and where he felt safe. When they moved together into 221B Baker Street and John befriended their landlady, home got an extra meaning, namely – Mrs Hudson's baked goods.

Sherlock whirled around and was in the middle of his dart back towards the table when his phone beeped with an incoming message. Not pausing in his swift movement, the detective pulled the mobile out and read the message. A moment later he reached the table and grabbed the biscuits with his left hand while furiously typing a reply with his right. Another whirl – and Sherlock was on his way to the door with an unmistakable excited gleam in his eyes.

"Lestrade," he announced, stopping in front of John and waving a handful of biscuits in front of his face. "We are being summoned. There's been a double murder."

John rolled his eyes and stepped aside, letting his flatmate pass into the hall. "Smooth move, Sherlock, but it's MY trick, and it's not going to work the other way. You can't simply bribe me with food and expect me to follow you like some Pavlovian dog."

The words were stern, but the warmth in the doctor's voice and the fact that he followed his friend into the hall told the detective all he needed to know: his blogger was by his side and ready to follow him wherever the case would lead them.

The secret of 221C was temporarily pushed into the background, but Sherlock definitely had no intention of letting it rest.

Of course, John didn't need to know that. For now, at least…

* * *

><p>John's relief about the new case was, unfortunately, short-lived: Sherlock solved it less than in half an hour, and after that Lestrade told them he didn't have anything else – 'nothing interesting, just the usual stuff we're capable to deal with by ourselves'.<p>

To the doctor's immense surprise, his flatmate seemed to absolutely forget about 221C, announcing resolutely that he decided to use this period of rest for a very important experiment he was planning to do for a long time but so far didn't have the right occasion. To prove his intention, he swiftly gathered the necessary equipment and, to John's irritation, transformed their kitchen into a laboratory – 'I don't understand the reason of your anger, John – I'm just keeping my promise not to do something stupid'.

To avoid taking any actions he might regret later, the doctor made his own decision: return to his work in a clinic as soon as possible. Due to Mycroft subtly pulling some strings, John kept his job even though he was absent the entire week.

So, Sherlock experimented, and John worked. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, but deep inside the doctor's mind a suspicion was growing. The whole situation was too perfect to be true.

Three days later Sherlock proved this suspicion right by making his first attempt of breaking into 221C. However, he didn't get further than the first door: some mechanism connected to it immediately discharged, hitting the detective with a tranquilizer dart and rendering him unconscious for the next 24 hours.

John found his sleeping flatmate in the hall. Despite his thin appearance, Sherlock certainly wasn't a lightweight, so the doctor gave up on the idea of getting his friend to the upstairs bedroom the moment he tried to lift him off the floor. A moment later he was practically saved by Mrs Hudson who made a suggestion for John to carry Sherlock into her living room and lay him down on the sofa.

"Mrs Hudson, you're a saint," John said, scooping Sherlock up and grunting softly with effort. "We don't deserve you."

"Nonsense, my dear," the small woman replied, accompanying him into the living room and helping him to settle the sleeping detective on the sofa. "It's he who doesn't deserve you… sometimes."

"None of us are perfect, Mrs Hudson," John said softly, covering his flatmate with a throw rug. "I knew from the beginning what I was getting myself into."

"Bless you, John Watson," their landlady said warmly. "And now shoo – you really look like you need a bit of rest too. Don't worry; I'll take care of him."

"I don't think he would cause you any trouble, Mrs Hudson," the doctor remarked, carefully pulling his friend's eye lid up and checking his pupil. "He clearly was injected with a strong sedative, and I won't be surprised if he'll sleep for the entire day."

"Well, then you definitely have no reason to worry, love. I know you need to go to work early in the morning, so why don't you go to bed too?" she briefly placed her hand on his shoulder in a gesture of silent support.

"Actually, I have a day-off tomorrow – if nothing serious happens at the clinic, of course," John announced, taking her hand and squeezing it lightly. "But you're right; I think it's time for me to turn in. Goodnight, Mrs Hudson."

"Goodnight, John," she followed him to the door and closed it behind him…

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke up the next morning feeling weak and nauseous, and it took him almost two minutes to make sense of his surroundings. Mrs Hudson, attracted by the noises his tenant was making, appeared in the living room with a breakfast which, in turn, prompted the detective to make a mad dash towards the loo.<p>

Concerned, the landlady went upstairs and returned with John in tow. The blond doctor even brought the first-aid kit with him, always preferring to be ready to deal with any problem he might encounter.

This time, however, his medical skills weren't necessary: the detective emerged from the loo slightly ruffled but obviously feeling better. Which he proved by wolfing down half of the aforementioned breakfast and retreating back into his impromptu laboratory upstairs. To give him credit, the younger man even grumbled something in a way of 'thanks' before leaving.

However, Sherlock's relatively polite behaviour didn't lessen John's intention to give 'that stubborn fool' a piece of his mind. So, the good doctor properly said 'thanks' and marched upstairs, ready to give his friend a full lecture about manners and meaning of an expression 'private property'.

The side door to their kitchen was closed, and so were the sliding doors between the kitchen and the living room; the detective was clearly letting him know he wouldn't appreciate a company right now. This 'warning' usually worked on the early stages of their developing relationship, but as the time passed, John grew more accustomed to his friend's antics, and could unmistakably say when Sherlock was serious and when it all was just an act or, as John and Lestrade preferred to call it, 'a childish moment'.

Now was clearly it.

John resolutely pushed the sliding doors apart and stepped into the kitchen. Sherlock, already engrossed in mixing various chemicals, glanced at him briefly.

"I know every word you're about to say, John, so don't waste your breath," the detective said sharply. "And no, I'm not going to promise not to try again. Besides, my dearest brother should have predicted I'm not going to remain aloof."

The ex-army medic looked at his friend for a few moments, then with a reserved "Fine" turned around and left the kitchen.

During the next two days neither of them said a single word to another. John dedicated most of his time to his work in the clinic, Sherlock – to his ongoing experiment. They met only at the moments when John ventured into the kitchen to eat something (and to feed Sherlock as well).

During the first day from time to time the good doctor felt pangs of guilt: his usual task was to care about Sherlock and to protect him, which right now was difficult due to their ridiculous disagreement. But the doctor and the detective matched each other when it came to stubbornness, and right now the doctor was determined on carrying his point. Besides, Sherlock sometimes deserved to be taught a lesson; now was certainly one of those occasions.

John didn't have to wait long: on the third day he came home and discovered the door to the 221C wide open. He carefully moved inside, surveyed the clear signs of the flat being thoroughly searched and nothing being found (simply because Sherlock turned the WHOLE flat over), and, leaving the crime scene, scaled the stairs towards their flat. He saw strange splashes of paint near the door to the 221C's living room on his way out, and now was starting to worry a bit. Was it another trap? Did Sherlock trigger it? Was his crazy flatmate alright?

All those questions continued to plague him until he got to the door of their living room and jerked it open.

The sight that greeted him made him stop in his tracks first and double with laughter a moment later.

Sherlock, sitting in his usual armchair, looked like a comic character: his skin and clothes were stained with paint, and his hairs were covered in some substance (suspiciously looking like glue). He obviously tried to get rid of the substance by cutting patches of his curls off, and now the previously stylish detective looked like a victim of some completely mental hairdresser.

"If you're quite finished with this expression of emotions on behalf of my appearance, fetch me my other dressing gown," remarked Sherlock, not bothering to look at his friend. His eyes were quickly scanning something on his laptop screen.

John took a few deep breaths, trying to bring himself under control. "Along with a t-shirt and your other pyjama trousers, I assume?"

Sherlock hummed in reply and scrolled down the page. Curious, the blond doctor crossed the room and peered at the screen.

"You're looking at it upside down," Sherlock remarked, raising his head, and a moment later John saw his friend tense slightly. "And we've got company, by the way."

There was an unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked in the vicinity of their living room door, and John froze, trying to judge the situation according to his friend's face. But Sherlock simply continued to stare impassively at their intruder, like a living statue: not blinking and not moving a muscle.

"He warned me about you, but frankly, I didn't expect you to be so stubborn," their unwelcome guest said with a hint of irony in his voice. "You have something that doesn't belong to you, so you'd better return it."

The sound of their visitor's voice unexpectedly triggered John's memory, and the doctor frowned, trying to remember. Something distant, something related to Afghanistan, something about pain and danger…

'Thanks for patching me up, Doc. Always a pleasure to work with a real professional'.

The voice was raspy from pain, but those icy eyes were clear and alert.

Somebody told him once that special agents were tough guys; that time he had an opportunity to experience it firsthand.

Out of curiosity, he asked the men's name, not really expecting an answer, and was really surprised to actually hear it.

The same name that now surfaced from the depth of his memory.

John straightened and turned around with his hands raised in a placating gesture and an amiable smile on his face. "Hello, James. Long time no see."

Their visitor slowly lowered his gun, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "Doc Watson?"

"Yes, that's me in person," the doctor moved forward and carefully closed the distance between them. "So you're the one Mycroft needed to protect?"

"Obviously," Sherlock cut in. "So you two know each other, I take it?"

"Oh, yes," James put his Walter PPK back into its holster. "I even have a scar to prove it."

"Very amusing," the detective closed his laptop. "But I want to clarify one detail, if you don't mind. I didn't take anything from your temporary lodgings, so I have nothing to return."

"And I wasn't talking about today, Mr Holmes," James smiled politely, but John wasn't fooled by this smile – their guest's stare was cold and hard. "Doc, would you be so kind to pass your friend his coat?"

Sherlock's face remained impassive, apart from a slight twitch of muscle under his right eye. "So it wasn't just a suspicion, we really were being watched in Florence."

"Your brother always pays attention even to the smallest of details," James's lips curved slightly in a resemblance of a smile. "So, the coat?"

Sherlock crossed his arms on his chest. "The usual place, John. And I think you should offer our guest a seat and a cup of your excellent tea. I hope you're not in a hurry, Mr…"

His enquiry was interrupted by another voice downstairs. "007?"

Sherlock's reaction was immediate.

"…Bond?" he finished with a note of triumph. "Mycroft had been freelancing for MI-6 again, I see."

"In here, Q!" Bond called out, casually taking a seat in John's armchair. "Would you mind making two cups of tea, doc?"

There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later the mysterious Q appeared in the living room. John simply waved him towards the sofa, brought Sherlock his coat and went into the kitchen to prepare tea.

They talked about a lot of things that evening: James and John reminisced about their meeting in Afghanistan, and Sherlock practically interrogated Q about the traps in 221C, which turned to be the younger man's handiwork.

As for Sherlock's coat – there was a microchip embedded in its collar, and Q had it extracted in a blink of an eye.

Time flew by too quickly, and soon two MI-6 employees were saying their goodbyes to the doctor and the detective and wishing them goodnight.

"I guess we won't be seeing each other again," Sherlock half-asked, half-affirmed, shaking Bond's hand firmly.

"Who knows?" 007 replied enigmatically. "Anything is possible."

Sherlock grinned. "Taking my brother into consideration – obviously."

"Take care, guys," John piped in. "And feel free to involve us into whatever… needs our involvement," he finished, looking slightly embarrassed.

"We'll take your offer into consideration," Bond answered with a grin.

Their guests left soon after that, and the two friends moved into the kitchen to enjoy another two cups of tea. Pouring the fragrant brew, John chuckled unexpectedly.

"What?" Sherlock, having raided the cupboards for snacks, placed a plate with biscuits on the table.

"Nothing," the doctor shook his head. "Just remembered some quote."

"Which is?" Sherlock dumped a slice of lemon into his friend's tea and raised his eyebrows.

"Well..," John paused, trying to recall the phrase. "Something about that one creepy neighbor that never comes out."

"And?" Sherlock selected a biscuit and bit into it.

"Not with you as the other neighbor, I guess," John said innocently. "But he certainly turned the tables."

"How so?" Sherlock looked at his friend inquiringly.

John simply fetched a mirror and gave it to Sherlock.

"Ah," the detective surveyed the colour of his skin and made an effort of sorting his bizarre looking hairs out. "Thank you for the new nickname, John. Not original, of course, but…"

"I wasn't talking about you, Sherlock," John interrupted. "This was the first time James actually came in. And Mycroft is a genius. Our trip to Florence, those cameos, the renovated 221C, those traps – all that just to turn you into a courier."

Sherlock briefly wrinkled his nose. "I always tell Mycroft he won't be able to fool you, but he refuses to believe me. Congratulations on being so perspicacious, John."

The good doctor smiled broadly. "Birds of a feather, Sherlock. Now, let me get those new clothes for you. And, considering that you'll be staying in the flat for a while…"

Sherlock suddenly looked alarmed. "Don't say it."

"Mycroft said you can have it, if..," John continued, ignoring his friend's reaction.

Sherlock's chair went over as he hastened to disappear from the kitchen, pressing his hands to his ears. "That is ABSOLUTELY out of the question, John!" he hollered, slamming the door of his bedroom shut and locking it with an audible click.

Alone in the kitchen, the doctor pulled his phone out and dialed a number. "Hello, Mycroft. Agent 007 left a package for you and asked me to pass it on… No, I don't think it would be wise… Half an hour? Perfect."

Now all he needed to do is assemble the device Q had given him before leaving.

Sherlock would certainly sulk for a while now, but who said they couldn't have a little fun?


End file.
